Little Boy Lost
by InfinityStar
Summary: Spring is in the air.


Robert Goren leaned back in his chair and stretched his back. He hated paperwork. He lived for the hunt, for the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction that came from nailing a perp to the wall with a confession. The paperwork, a necessary evil, was anti-climatic.

Across from him, Alex Eames looked up. She shared his sentiments, although, for her, the paperwork was a way to unwind. The comfort of established routine was important to her. She didn't struggle with the tedium like her energetic partner did.

Noticing his increased restlessness, she set down her pen. "Bored or tired?" she asked, her tone teasing.

He shrugged. "What about you?"

"Maybe."

That was all the encouragement he needed. Getting to his feet, he grabbed his jacket and held her coat for her. With an indulgent smile, she got up from her desk and slid her arms into the waiting sleeves. Almost as soon as the weight of the coat settled on her shoulders, he was on his way to the elevators. With a laugh and a shake of her head, she followed him.

After hours inside a mostly climate-controlled building, they stepped out onto the streets of the city as the sun descended in the west on its journey to bring light to China and Japan. Goren stopped in the plaza outside the building and took a deep breath. "Do you smell that, Eames?"

She gave him a sidewards glance as she took a hesitant sniff. At any point in its existence, the city gave off a thousand odors. "Uhm," she began warily. "What am I supposed to smell?"

Death...decay...the scent of a man thinking about committing a crime that would intersect their lives with his, of a woman about to become a victim who would ensconce herself in the warmth of her partner's caring soul? Or vice versa...crime and justice knew no gender, no age, no class...and neither did Goren's compassion.

Goren took another deep breath. "Spring," he said with a touch of awe in his tone. "Spring is back, and it's in the air."

Eames breathed in again with less hesitancy. "And you can break that out from all the other smells of the city? The garbage, the decay, the fuel exhaust..."

He stepped closer to her, his eyes burning with rare passion. "It's there," he promised. The smell of soil erupting to bring forth new life, the promise of blooming flowers and fresh-cut grass, cooking hot dogs from curbside vendors replacing the roasting chestnuts of the winter season... It was a smell all its own, fresh and alive and indefinable.

She was caught up in his excitement, in the little boy happiness that sometimes crept up from the depths of his damaged soul to seek approval from someone who cared...about him. "It's a good smell, Bobby," she assured him.

If his keen sense of smell picked it up and his brilliant mind interpreted it as spring, she would accept it, even as she pulled her coat more tightly around her to protect against the buffeting March winds he seemed oblivious to. "Can we keep moving?" she asked. "Before I blow away."

A moment of confusion crossed his face, and the little boy scurried back into hiding to wait for another unguarded moment in which he would make an appearance, uninvited, but always welcome—to Eames. "Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry, Eames."

He lumbered toward the sidewalk. Surprised by the sudden change, she scurried after him. She knew that little boy hidden in the recesses of his psyche, and she always regretted his departure as much as she was surprised and delighted by his appearance. She wished he would come out to play more often. To her, he represented hope, hope that the damage done to his gentle soul was not complete—or irreversible.

But to Goren, he was a weakness, a flaw in his psychological makeup that only served to remind him of the childhood that had been taken from him far too early. The little boy's departure only fueled morose introspection in the man he taunted.

"Spring really is just around the corner," she said, by way of apology for taking that moment from him.

His only response was a grunt and a nod. The moment was gone, and Eames mourned its passing. One of these days, she would find a way to bring the little boy out and get him to stay just a little longer. She loved his bright, excited eyes, his energy and his delight in the most mundane of things, like a hint of spring in the late winter air. She loved the thought that he still saw magic in the world, as though a leaf in the wind were carried aloft on a current of pixie dust and hope.

"So, where are we going?" she asked, remembering that she had chased after him from the squad room without knowing their destination.

He turned his head toward her, and his eyes glimmered with mischief. His mouth twitched as he suppressed a smile but remained silent. He was playing again, although the little boy she loved to see had returned to dormancy.

She nudged him playfully, getting into the spirit of his once-again elevated mood. "Come on," she urged. "Tell me."

"You said you were bored and tired," he reminded her.

"No, I said _you_ were bored and tired," she corrected with a smile.

He brushed off the correction without acknowledging it. "A brisk walk is invigorating, and it will clear out the cobwebs."

Her smile widened as she nodded. "Granted, but I am not going to chase you all over the island."

He laughed lightly. "No, just a few blocks."

After a few minutes of companionable silence, she asked, "How invigorated do you need me to be?"

He only smiled as he led her across Broadway, onto a side street and into a small bakery nestled between a dress store and a tobacconist. She stopped inside the doorway and closed her eyes. Surely Heaven couldn't smell this good. Half a dozen tables, each one occupied, were scattered around the room in front of the glass cases displaying the day's offerings. Behind the counter, a short, stocky woman with a round, pleasant face talked with a teenage girl who wore an apron and had her blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail.

When she spotted them, the woman's face lit up. "Robert, my boy!" she exclaimed in a thick Russian accent.

She said something in her native tongue and Eames was not surprised when he answered her, also in Russian. When the woman bustled about to apparently gather what he'd asked for, he said, "This bakery has been here since 1857, when Mrs. Petrovich's great-grandfather emigrated from Russia and opened it. Every generation since has been raised speaking Russian at home and following the customs of the Old Country while they enjoy the freedoms of the New Country." He nodded his head toward the blonde teenager. "Anna is her great-granddaughter, the seventh generation of family to be involved in this bakery."

Mrs. Petrovich bustled to the counter and handed him a bag. When he reached into his pocket, she made a fuss, but he still pulled out several bills, dropping them into a glass jar near the cash register. She continued to fuss at him, until he leaned over the counter to place a quick kiss on her cheek, followed by several words in Russian. Her face turned red but she was obviously pleased. He winked at Anna, who waved at him, as he guided Eames out of the bakery.

He handed the bag to Eames with a grin, explaining, "Kulich is traditionally an Easter cake. Mrs. Petrovich begins making them during Lent because they are very popular and people come in, asking for them. She has a special recipe for the cakes she makes just for Easter."

Eames pointed back over her shoulder. "What was the fuss for?"

"She never lets me pay, and she always fusses when I drop the money in the tip jar instead. Anna or one of her siblings get that money, and she tells me I spoil them."

"What did you say to embarrass her?"

"She wasn't embarrassed. She was pleased. I told her they have to pay for college somehow, so they can be as smart as their beautiful _babushka_."

She laughed. "You flirt."

He grinned and motioned to the bag in her hand. "Those pastries are proof that it's spring."

Her heart swelled with affection for him and she conceded, "All right. It's spring."

He smiled at her as they crossed Broadway on their way back to 1 PP.


End file.
